


Krankenstand

by Savageandwise



Category: Music RPF, Real Person Fiction, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Fluffish, Hamburg, M/M, Sick Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 14:36:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21163259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageandwise/pseuds/Savageandwise
Summary: It's not too fun being ill in Hamburg.





	Krankenstand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tikk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tikk/gifts).

> This fic is for @Parrotik on tumblr. Being sick sucks. Here's some sick Paul to cheer you up.
> 
> The title means sick leave in German.
> 
> It's not technically mclennon. But if you want it to be it can be. So. I did my best. But it's just a touch nicer than reality. This is fanfiction. We can have nice things here.

Paul was still in bed, wrapped in the Union Jack like a patriotic caterpillar. He was wearing his leathers and an extra pair of Pete's socks plus a woolen hat that he'd nicked off George.

"Go on," John said grabbing hold of Paul's foot. "You know what Horst says."

Wer saufen kann, kann auch arbeiten. If you can drink, you can work.

"I'm ill. Not hungover. Well maybe I was hungover. But now I've got the lurgy," Paul said.

"Oh, the dreaded lurgy, is it?" John said mockingly.

Paul let out a pathetic moan. "Just go on without me. I won't be any good at mach schauing in this state."

He sat up abruptly and then slumped back against the wall. Paul was so pale he was almost translucent, the dark circles under his eyes seemed to emphasise their size and the ink black of his thick lashes. John had to admit being hungover suited Paul down to the ground. 

"If you're too sick to play you'll have to stay here, I suppose," John relented. "Stu will be glad of the chance to sing a couple songs." He said it a bit unkindly, the stricken expression on Paul's face was well worth it.

He came back hours later to get some money he'd hidden under his mattress. He owed some to Rory Storm and he figured now was a good a time as any to pay him back. As he slid the money into the pocket of his jeans he realised why he'd really returned. He stuck his head into the other room. Paul hadn't changed his position in over six hours. He was still flat on his back, his hands up against the wall like he was surrendering.

"Are you dead?" John called out. "Paul?"

He walked over to the narrow cot and sat down at the foot of the bed. Paul's feet in their multiple layers of wool were like icicles. John chaffed one between his hand and then the other. Paul didn't even seem to notice it, his eyes were open but he still hadn't spoken a word. 

"Oh, for Christ's…" John exclaimed. He jumped to his feet and hurried into the next room, scooped up the dusty moth eaten blanket from his bed and deposited it on top of Paul unceremoniously. 

"How'd it go?" Paul rasped hoarsely. 

"Like a dream. I unplugged the bass after the third song, forgot the words to Long Tall Sally and Pete was late every cue," John said.

Paul struggled to sit up and started to cough.

"Slow down, Dizzy Miss Lizzy. The last set's over. No one will remember tomorrow."

Paul let his eyes flutter shut. "I was dreaming of roast lunch."

"Yorkshire pudding?"

"Potatoes."

"Bah," John said but without vehemence.

Paul pulled the blanket up to his chin. "Sell me soul for a cup of tea," he said drowsily.

John stood up again and headed for the door. "Stay there!" he commanded.

"Where would I go?" Paul called after him, his voice cracking like a kid hitting puberty.

John returned a little while later with a pot of steaming tea and a packet of throat lozenges. "Compliments of some of the girls and your Müttichen," he said with a little flourish. "Wanted to come kiss it better but I said it's the black death, you have boils and you're dead contagious."

"Rosa did?" Paul spluttered nearly spilling the cup of tea John poured him. 

"The girls!" John clarified exasperatedly. "You really are ill."

Paul nodded distractedly and slurped his tea. "It's too hot."

"Of course it's hot, you motherless mongrel. It's good for you." 

John sat down on the bed again and patted Paul's leg awkwardly.

"You're not too good at this nursemaid stuff, you know that don't you?" Paul said looking up over the rim of his cup and glowering.

"Shame. I was thinking of giving up Rock and Roll and doing this full time, Mimi would be so proud."

For a while Paul sipped his tea in silence. Then John felt him push his feet under his thigh. The look in his eye was challenging but John just shrugged.

"You're not afraid of catching the black death?" Paul asked.

"What's a bit of black death between mates, eh?"

For a long while no one spoke and John began to think Paul had fallen asleep. He gently pulled the cup from Paul's hands and set it on the floor. Paul cleared his throat and swallowed back a cough. "A good nursemaid would sing me a song, you know," Paul said earnestly.

John wasn't sure if he was being serious. He racked his brains for an appropriate song to sing to a sick friend. It wouldn't do to croon some sappy love song to him. It wouldn't do at all. But this was Hamburg. He was learning fast the regular rules didn't apply here. Hamburg was Neverland, Hamburg was beyond the looking glass. 

"I found my thrill," John sang in a low voice. "On Blueberry Hill. On Blueberry Hill, when I found you."

For once Paul didn't try to lift his voice in harmony. Paul's hand lay close to his on the ratty woolen blanket and he thought he saw his fingers stretching out towards his. John lifted his friend's hand, squeezing it once absently and tucked it safe under the covers where it was warm.

**Author's Note:**

> I put the song at the end in because I'm the biggest 12 Monkeys fan.  
Also Paul loves Fats Domino.


End file.
